


Sleeps Alone

by librocubucularist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 06:59:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3281108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librocubucularist/pseuds/librocubucularist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dean has these dreams…well, nightmares, really…and he just. Well, he gets lost in them. They sort of take over, like the car is running but no one's behind the wheel, you know? Like he's not my brother anymore. And stuff happens…bad stuff. They got really bad when we were kids, but he's been ok for a while now. I mean, he hasn't said anything…" Sam trailed off, sadness etched years into his young face. If only his brother would TALK to him maybe he could help. He's not a kid anymore, for fuck's sake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea why this first chapter is in present tense. Please don't let it deter you from reading the rest of the story. When I have time I'll go through and try to correct it, but I'm working on new chapters right now and I don't want to break my stride. Currently a work in progress. Finally decided to post it from the 2014 Write Every Day in February challenge. The Major Character death isn't anything to be afraid of. It's not like it's anyone who hasn't died in the show…  
> But seriously, the Major Character death isn't really a surprise.

Heart pounding an erratic staccato against his ribs, Dean pants heavily through cracked lips. His outer shirt catches on a branch and tears a hole the size of his arm as he sprints through the sparsely wooded wasteland. Head whipping from side to side he can see the creatures are surrounding him, herding him to the waterfront that’s rushing up to meet his stuttering steps. His foot catches on an exposed root and pitches head-first into the rocks and rancid soil that greets the polluted water.

 

Dazed, he slaps a shaking hand to his forehead where a sharp rock has cut him, blood pouring out between his trembling fingers. A sharply clawed hand bites into his shoulder and flips him over. Dean’s eyes and mouth widen in terror as the fanged muzzle drools down on him, a red glow emanating from the deeply sunken pits where the things eyes should be. Abandoning his attempt to stop the gash on his forehead from bleeding out, he scrabbles bothe hands against the beast’s hairy arm. His legs kick out in twitchy jerks, trying in vain to catch the thing in the knee. The gorilla wolf—that’s the best description he can come up with for the _thing_ in front of him—draws it’s horrible, black furred face back slowly and lunges, mouth open like a snake to devour him. He lets out a strangled cry as his vision is filled with the dark maw of teeth and tongue.

 

Dean jerks awake and lies gasping for a few minutes before the sticky wetness of his tangled sheets and the soft ticking of his old-fashioned alarm clock let him know that he is in his room. He starts shaking as the nightmare rolls over him. He shoves a fist into his mouth as sobs wrack his body and he tries to just breathe.

 

Eventually he is able to stop sobbing enough to make his limbs work. Tears still leaking out of his bloodshot eyes, he rolls over—legs still trapped in his sheets—enough to reach his right arm over the side of the bed to grasp the neck of the whiskey bottle he keeps there. He’s able to thrash his legs enough to untangle them, for the most part, and he sits up enough to take a deep swig from the almost empty bottle through trembling lips.

 

He winces as the cheap liquor burns it’s way down his throat to make a steadying weight in his belly. Taking another pull he swings his legs over the side of the narrow bed. Rubbing the back of his calloused hand over his sore eyes he sets the bottle back down beside the bed.

 

He hitches out a sigh as he slumps over, blonde head cradled in his hands before turning to look at the clock. 5:13am, might as well get going for the day. He scrubs at his face roughly with bothe hands and lunges forward to stand. Dean looks blearily at the slightly ajar door to his standing closet. Red eyes flash in the darkness of the wooden box.

 

He blinks once and draws back, legs hitting the bed almost sending him tumbling back into its hold. Dragging a rough tongue across his lips, mouth dry from fear, he pulls in a steadying breath and inches towards his bedroom door.

 

Dean flips the light on as he sneaks out of the sparsely furnished room down the hall. The stream of light running down the hall from his ajar bedroom door is the only illumination in his tiny apartment. Rubbing his arms more for emotional comfort than warmth he clicks on the bathroom light and goes about his morning routine.

 

Turn on shower (it takes a while for the old pipes to get warm water flowing), take a piss (he needs it after all that alcohol), brush teeth (get the smell of whiskey off his breath), check water temperature (still a little cold but, fuck it, a man can only wait so long), scrub the dried and sticky sweat from last night off (lather, rise, repeat...because he’s forgotten that he’s already done it), flick off shower, hear a noise in the hallway and freeze like a deer caught in the headlights, tremble until the beads of water running down his body are sweat again, struggle into last night’s clothes (still soaking wet), run into bedroom and slide down the door panting until his heart-rate slows back down, take a swig of whiskey, get dressed.

 

Just an average morning. Well, for Dean, at least.

 

Dean sighs heavily as he pulls his apartment door closed and locks it (three clicks and one satisfying hallow thud). He keeps his head down as he makes his way to the stairwell, hoping that Luc, the weirdo in 66B, wouldn’t be up this early. Dean was _not_ in the mood to deal with Luc’s re-enactment of last night’s debauchery.

 

Thankfully the hallway stayed blissfully empty and he was able to make it to his car without interruption. He glanced at the flat grey of the sky as he approached the shiny black Impala. “Gotta get new wiper blades,” the blonde muttered to himself as he unlocked the car.

 

Grey light filtered weakly through the low-hanging clouds as Dean drove down the backroads, avoiding the early morning rush on the highway. Yawning widely, he rubs a calloused finger across his eyes blinking back his fatigue.

 

As he slows at a stop sign his eye is caught by a bright orange and yellow banner on the opposite side of the street. Peering blearily at it the welcome smell of fresh coffee and sweet pastries hits his nose. GRAND OPENING!! proudly announces that Heavenly Coffee is ready for business. Dean perks up instantly and takes a right to circle the block, searching for somewhere to park.

 

Making certain to park where no one will ding his baby the blonde grunts his way out of the Impala and drags himself across the street towards the new café.

 

One of those tiny, annoying bells tinkles as he walks through the door. He looks around the sees a few early risers clutching ceramic cups near the back of the small shop.

 

“Just a sec!” he hears float from the propped open door behind the counter. Dean shuffles up to the display and checks out the selection of breakfast pastries and bagels.

 _Homemade on the premises_ a frilly sign proudly boasts at the top of the class case. The whiskey sits hard in his stomach and he quickly turns from the nauseating, sugary selection to look at the menu board on the back wall.

 

“How can I help you?” a short man says as he approaches the counter, a fresh tray of coffee cake balanced on his shoulder.

 

“Uhhh...coffee?” Dean croaks out, trying hard to calm his stomach from the fresh wave of sticky-sweet aroma that the arrival of the cake prompted.

 

The barista sets the tray down on the back counter (thank God!) with a clack. “Sure thing. Industrial size I’m guessing?” he says as he saunters over to the register, tucking a strand of long hair behind his ear. “You look like you had a long night. Sure you don’t want espresso?”

 

Dean blinks a few times at the shorter man who just smiles at him with his head cocked to the side, waiting for the blonde’s brain to catch up with the conversation.

 

“Riiiiiight...coffee it is!” the barista drawls as Dean’s brow creases in frustration. “That’ll be $2.58” he says plunking down the paper cup on the counter next to the register.

 

Dean shoves a hand clumsily into his pocket and draws out a crumpled mess of bills and change. He manages to separate the exact tender without dropping any of the rest (a miracle) and pushes the crumpled bills across the wooden counter grabbing the empty cup and turning towards the airpots near the bar seating.

 

The steam rising out of his cup started the waking up process. Adding just enough cream to protect his stomach from the worst of the acidity he sipped at the piping hot liquid and slowly turned towards the seating. He didn’t need to rush; the garage didn’t open for another hour, anyway. People watching always seemed to sooth his nerves, cataloging what he saw about others near him and watching them interact with eachother. It was an old habit drilled into him by his ex-marine father. _Know who’s around you, boy. That’s the only way to keep safe._


	2. Stanford, Nerd College. College of the Nerds.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam is a nerd and Dean has to make sure everyone knows that his baby brother is the Kind of Nerddom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me for how long it has taken me to upload the second chapter. I am very much hoping that I can upload regularly for a while. I'll probably upload every two weeks, just to give myself some time. Hope you enjoy!

“Sam! Hey, Sam! Wait up, you long-legged beast.”

Sam looked up from his textbook and shook his hair out of his eyes in annoyance. His scowl was marred by the highlighter clasped between his teeth.

 

“Oh...ca’e ahn,” the lanky brunette garbled around the highlighter before capping it. “Brady, you look like you got hit by a car then threw up on yourself. Man, you’re not gonna make it through this semester if you keep partying every night.”

 

The blonde smirked, somehow coming off sheepish despite the devious glint in his eyes. “Ah, come on, man! You should have _seen_ the chicks at this place. You’re missing _out_ , dude! You gotta experience life once in a while.” Brady slapped Sam on the back before grabbing his shoulders and attempting to swing up for a piggy-back but was easily dodged by his best friend. Sam caught his hungover friend’s arm, saving him from an embarrassing faceplant on the sprinkler-damp cement.

 

“You’re wasting your youth!”

 

Sam chuckled ruefully. “Come on, man. You know I’m with Jessica. I’m spoken for. Besides,” Sam tapped his textbook before smacking Brady with it. “Studying. Remember? Classes? Those things your dad pays a lot of money for you to fail?”

 

Sam dodged a playful swipe from the shorter man’s fist and loped off, laughing at his friend as he struggled to catch up. He kept walking towards the library as he reached into his front pocket to pull out the buzzing phone.

 

Dean

:: _Hey, nerd. How’re midterms?_ ::

 

Sam->Dean

:: _Better than grease under my fingernails, jerk._ ::

 

Dean->Sam

:: _At least I’m not a nerd, bitch._ ::

Sam rolled his eyes. Some things never change and Dean is one of those things.

 

Sam->Dean

:: _Do you have time this weekend to Skype? I want to talk about our holiday plans so I can buy tickets._ ::

 

Dean->Sam

:: _You’re such a girl. Yeah we can Skype. Wear something slutty._ ::

 

Sam->Dean

:: _Ew. You’re such an asshole. Gotta get to class now. See you soon._ ::

 

Sam slid his phone closed and started down the stairs to the library’s basement. Spending the past 3 years at Stanford had been tough. Working part-time to help offset the bills and studying late into the night to keep his GPA up to the requirements for his scholarships was taxing, but it would all be worth it once he graduated. Just a few more months and he could officially apply to the Law school. He’d already been unofficially headhunted by a couple of the fraternities who saw him as talent they wanted as alumni.

 

Dean was probably right about him being a nerd, but the rewards were about to pay off in that department. Sam hadn’t taken a break from school since he first stepped foot into class as a freshman. Taking advantage of every summer, weekend, and extra course he could manage (and even some that were over the official credit cap) Sam was going to be able to graduate a semester early. Which means that he would have the drop on applying for grad school with a full degree instead of the hope of finishing strong with professor recommendations.

 

He would have to wait until the following Fall term to start his program so he could rest then. In all likelihood he would continue to study and might even try to get the syllabi from some of the TAs he knew from study groups.

 

And all of this had been planned very carefully. There really wasn’t enough money for Sam to go back to Kansas every break or even during summers so he knew that it would be a long time between getting to see his brother and their little makeshift family a few hours north in South Dakota. By taking all the extra classes he could guarantee himself a good 7 months at home before he would have to be away again to get his Law degree.

 

He hated being so far away for so long, but there really wasn’t an alternative if he wanted to get out of the life his family and friends had been trapped in for so long. Sam didn’t think that there was anything wrong with hard day labour...for some people. But it wasn’t for him. And he’d seen what that kind of life had done to his father. No thank you.

 

Sam opened the door to his classroom and slid into a seat in the back near the door. He hated this class. Why the university decided that every pre-law student should be required to take an extra psychology credit beyond the general course was beyond Sam’s understanding. It’s not like they would have to psychoanalyze their clients. That’s what court psychiatrists were for.

 

The lecture hall filled up slowly as bleary-eyed partiers, harassed-looking pre-med students, and disgruntled pre-law students ambled in. This was the last course that was open when Sam found out that he would have to take another credit of psycho (as the students liked to call these classes). Abnormal psychology wasn’t exactly high on Sam’s list of desired knowledge study, but if it got him to graduation than it would have to do.

 

He glared down at his syllabus as he though back over last night’s reading. _Histrionic and borderline personality disorders. Drama. Emotional instability. Trouble maintaining personal relationships. I got this._

 

The buzz died down as the side door to the professor’s office creaked open and two men walked to the middle of the lectern. One slightly balding man with graying brown hair and thick glasses in his normal suede elbow patched jacket and khakis was Professor Nevins, the instructor for this course. The other was a willowy lady in a tight pencil skirt and loose white silk blouse. Her nut-brown hair swept into a sophisticated knot at the side of her head and her high heals clicked confidently on the hardwood. Sam guessed she was an administrator who had come to observe the class.

 

“Class,” Prof. Nevins addressed the students. “This is Dr. Emilia Proctor. If you don’t recognize her name you haven’t read far enough in your textbooks because her research on psychosis are some of the most groundbreaking case studies published in this century.” Dr. Proctor smiled sheepishly at the front row. “She has magnanimously agreed to do a guest lecture series for Stanford on psychosis and hallucinatory episodes. I know that we are not scheduled to start into deep psychoses, hallucinations, and in-patient treatment until after the mid-term, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity for you all to hear from this amazing psychologist. Please be attentive and if you want to hear more on today’s lecture feel free to attend one of the three sessions she will be presenting this weekend in Jordan Hall. Emilia, always a pleasure.” Prof. Nevins shook the Dr.’s hand and exchanged a few goodbye pleasantries with her before he left for his office while the lecture hall buzzed with interest.

 

Sam sat rooted to his chair. He went cold while Nevins was introducing Dr. Proctor. And he felt like the air had been sucked out of the room when the professor said she would be presenting today’s lecture. Mouth dry, Sam tried to collect his scattered thoughts by focusing on the pattern of the girl’s braid in front of him. He wasn’t prepared for this. Hard psychosis wasn’t supposed to be for another three weeks. He’d been saving up his sick days to skip the lecture on hallucinations. This really wasn’t how he wanted to start his week.


	3. The Family That Copes the Same...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smart choices made by Sam. This is a short one, don't hate me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember that this is unbeta'd so if you see anything glaringly wrong PLEASE TELL ME. Thanks for reading :)

Sam unlocked the door to his apartment and all but fell through with exhaustion. This had NOT been a good day. His bag slipped from his shoulder, crashing to the ground, and he kicked it aside as he let the door slam shut behind him. Dropping his keys he made his way to the kitchen and opened the fridge. He sighed in relief as he saw that there was an almost full 24 pack of beer on the bottom shelf, compliments of Brady. Not even bothering to close the fridge the tall brunette cracked open the can and chugged the contents, pulling out another can before he was even finished with the first. _Just a few to dull the edges_ he thought to himself. _This was a bad day_.

Somewhere between the fifth and seventh can Sam found himself working through next week’s mid-term paper for his Cultural Anthropology course. Peering blearily through half-closed eyes at his carefully structured notes he was determined to finish the assignment.

“Sam? You home?”

The front door closed and confused muttering floated down the hall to the spare room Sam was currently occupying.

 

“Sam?” Jessica’s blonde head poked into the room as she gently tapped on the half open door. “Hey, you ok?”

Sam turned around unevenly, knocking an empty can to the floor. A slow smile pulling up one side of his face. “H-hey, beautiful. What are you doing h- _hic_ -home so early?”

Jessica stepped into the room slowly, holding onto the door. “Um. It’s 6:30, Sam. Have you been drinking? What’s going on?”

The brunette looked down at his wrist and attempted to focus on the watch that wasn’t there. Only looking away as his phone vibrated, alerting him to a new text.

Uriel->Sam

:: _You’d better have a good reason for being so late. Be here in 5 minutes or you’re fired._ ::

“Shit.” Sam had completely forgotten that he had a shift tonight. He was supposed to be there half an hour ago. He stood up quickly, knocking the chair over and nearly spilling his laptop onto the floor in his haste to get out the door. “Gotta get to work. Can’t be fired.”

“Woahwoahwoah!! You’re not going ANYWHERE, tiger.” It was a testament to how much the alcohol was affecting his system that the blonde was able to push him down onto the futon without much trouble. She held out her hand under his nose forcefully. “Give me your phone.”

Without even thinking about it Sam handed his girlfriend the cell that was still clutched in his massive grip, blinking up at her in confusion. How did she get so tall?

Jessica kept one hand on Sam’s shoulder to keep him from pitching forward onto the floor while she tapped on his phone and put it to her ear.

“Uriel? Hey, it’s Jessica, Sam’s girlfriend? Yeah, he actually has a fever of about 102 and he’s been pretty delirious all evening. I didn’t know that he had a shift today and I gave him some NyQuil so he passed out about an hour ago. I’m really sorry about that. I would have let you know sooner. Yeah. I’ll let him know. Thank you.” She flicked the phone closed and took a deep breath before looking back at her boyfriend.

“You’d better have a good reason for this, buddy. This isn’t like you.”

Sam giggled, “I like you, too.” He leaned in, burying his face between the blonde’s breasts, and brought his hands up to cup her butt.

“Whoa there!” Jessica pushed the tall man’s head back with a palm to his forehead and slid out of his octopus grip. Sam whined pathetically. “Yeah, that is SO not happening tonight. You are going to sleep this off and then you’re going to explain to me why you thought getting shit faced alone on a Monday afternoon was a brilliant idea.”

Jessica put a firm hand on her boyfriend’s already slanting shoulder to lay him down on the futon. “You’re too big a boy for me to get to the bedroom so you’re just gonna have to deal with the sore back in the morning. It’s not like you won’t be sore other places.” Sam sighed heavily as he Jessica pulled his shoes off his feet and tucked his legs under a spare blanket. She looked down at her boyfriend with a hand on her hip and shook her head. Brushing back his greasy bangs she smiled wistfully before leaning down to kiss his forehead.

She moved an empty trashcan near the futon before flicking the light off and heading out to the living room. _What in the world was that all about? I hope he’s ok because if he’s not he’s gonna get used to sleeping on that futon for a few nights_.


	4. Hold Onto Your Hats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A close call, self-medication, and car junk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hurt me if I get car engine terminology/parts wrong. I've tried to do some research but I've never been taught anything about cars or engines so I'm just guessing. I'll try not to put too much detail into the parts where they're working on cars so that I don't sound like a total idiot, but since he's a mechanic...

Dean gripped the wrench with both hand and strained to open the hose deep inside the engine. _Damn rusty bucket. Come on!_ Sweat ran up his back into his hairline from the angle he was pitched forward into the bowels of the impossible project. Why he had agreed to work on this hunk of junk was beyond him. This wasn’t worth the paycheck.

 

“Damnit.” He cursed between clenched teeth and released the tension on the washer and slid out from inside the car, steel toed boot feet landing solidly on the clean-swept garage. Blood spiraled down to his legs making his vision go fuzzy for a second before he shook the cobwebs out and sighed heavily. No matter how much he complained he would MUCH rather be struggling with this car hose than making business calls. The downside of moving up the executive ladder was officework.

 

Wiping his hands on a heavily stained rag he put down the wrench on his workstation and walked into the back office. The fluorescent lights cast a sickly green tinge over the furniture and paper crowded interior. The duck taped minifridge buzzed loudly as Dean opened it to grab a water, reminding everyone that it had worked 24/7 for the past 5 years and needed a permanent vacation soon.

 

Taking a quick swig from the plastic bottle, Dean leaned against the wall and glanced over at the desk. “Hey, Ash, could you do me a favor?”

 

Moaning in agony the gaunt figure spun around in the office chair, dribbling blood from his gaping mouth. Cloudy eyes rolled in rotting sockets as they tried to fix their empty stare to the voice that had disturbed it. It’s slack jaw cracked and opened wide, showing the rotting maw inside.

 

* _Blink_ * Dean broke out into a cold sweat and tried to keep his eyes from popping out of his head as he came back to reality. Clammy hands shook as he tried to keep a grip on the plastic bottle in his hands that he now desperately wished contained something 10x stronger than the water sloshing around inside of it. It was a good thing he was leaning on the wall wedged between the threadbare couch and filing cabinet the minifridge sat on top of. He didn’t trust himself not to run screaming from the room. Oops. Legs giving out.

 

“What can I do for you, Dean-o?” The dirty-blonde inventory manager said in a relaxed drawl as Dean sank onto the arm of couch, trying to act as casual as possible.

 

Taking in a shaky breath the mechanic swiped a rough hand quickly over his mouth to remove the sheen of moisture gathered there before taking another swig from the water bottle. “Uh, I was wondering if you could get in touch with Bobby to see when he’ll be back in the shop. Got a stubborn antique engine I could use his eye on.” He let out a slow breath as Ash swiveled back to his computer, mullet swishing over his shoulder. Looks like his little episode went unnoticed. Thank fuck.

 

“Bossman’ll be back in the shop ‘round 3. Need me to call him in sooner?”

 

“Nah, man. I’ll just work on another section till he gets here. Thanks.”

 

Ash gave his signature duck lips and peace sign as Dean pushed off the edge of the couch and walked back into the garage. Legs trembling slightly he ducked out the side emergency exit that was propped open with a cinder block for airflow. The early autumn air chilled Dean further as it drew across the sweat at the back of his neck and under his armpits. Shivering from more than the breeze the green eyed man shimmied between two of the rusting scrap metal dumpsters and dragged out a bedraggled backpack by a broken strap. His hands were shaking so badly by this point he could hardly unzip the bag and nearly dropped it a few times before his fingers made purchase on the worn zipper. Inside was salvation: two bottles of warm beer, stashed just for a time such as this. Popping open the first bottle with a twist on his forearm, hands too greasy from working on the cars, he downed the first half in one swig. Sighing expansively he made short work of the rest of the bottle and hesitated for a second before cracking open the second and downing it as well.

 

Tossing the bag back between the dumpsters Dean pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his jumper pocket and quickly lit one, taking a drag with a grimace. He really didn’t like smoking but it covered up the smell of the alcohol on his breath pretty well as long as he didn’t have anything too strong or too much. He felt the warmth of the beers in his belly spreading to his limbs and he relaxed into the familiar buzzing. _That should take the edge off. Just gotta make it through the shift_. Dean took a last drag on the cigarette for good measure before crushing the butt under his heel.

 

“Dean? You out here, son?” The familiar rasp made Dean jerk upright from the hunch he didn’t realize he’d pulled into. A worn cap bill was the first thing that peeked out through the side door followed by a man who could only be described as gruff. Wizened beard liberally flecked with grey, threadbare shirt with some logo so faded not even memory could decipher what it originally said, plaid shirt unbuttoned over the top with so many holes in the arms the only thing holding it together was the fact that the sleeves were rolled up past weather-worn elbows, all trade jeans that were so stained you would think they had been bought in the hottest tween fashion store, and worn in boots that were the newest clothing item as any true labourer was oft to do. But all this belied the kind smile lurking in the clear sighted faded-grey eyes and the fierceness of the love for family beating in the heart underneath.

 

The corners of Bobby’s mouth turned down as he caught the scent of fresh cigarette smoke. “You smoking, again, boy? Thought you’d given that up.” His eyes pierced into Dean as the younger man shuffled guiltily, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

“Hey everybody’s got a vice, old man. This ain’t so bad.”

 

Bobby’s frown deepened. “Those’ll kill you, boy. Do yourself a favour and quit it.”

 

Dean nodded absently and squeezed past the owner into his garage. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

 

Bobby sighed deeply and turned back inside. “Ash said you needed me about something?”

 

“Oh! Yeah. Didn’t expect you back for a few more hours. Was just gonna move on to another part of the car I could use your eye on this.” Dean strode over to the junked Corvette, picking up a light as he drew around to the front of the car. Clicking on the bulb he shone the light into the depths of the engine. “I can’t see a way of getting these parts out without dismantling the whole car and spending way more hours on this project than we’re getting paid to do. Wondering if you have any thoughts.”  


The older man pushed back his cap and peered under the hood, leaning in with his hands deep in pockets. After a few seconds he blew through his nose and, without turning, said, “This that car the pompous guy in the white suit brought in?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“D’ja tell him he should buy a new car, it would be cheaper?”

 

“No. He didn’t bring it by himself. Had some auxiliary staff person bring it by this morning.”

 

Bobby turned towards the green eyed mechanic, leaning his elbow on the edge of the Corvette. “Auxiliary staff?” He quirked an eyebrow, mustache twitching in amusement.

 

Dean flushed, “Er. Well. You know. I mean...I know words.” He finished lamely, blush deepening. Coughing self consciously he turned to look his boss directly in the face. “Can we get back to the car? Please?”

 

Bobby chuckled softly, “Sure thing, Charles Dickens.” He leaned away from the car, pulling the clipboard off of Dean’s immaculate workstation. He always prided himself in having an extremely clean workspace. He couldn’t stand when mechanics threw tools haphazardly into tool boxes and left dirty gloves and empty plastic cups all over the shop. He preferred things to be orderly and neat, much less risk of getting hurt that way. Plus it was so satisfying to rub the oil and grime out of the nooks and crannies of his things, leaving them gleaming like they just came from the store. Why only polish up the cars when they’re finished when you could have that shiny gleam on your own possessions, too.

 

The older man flicked through the maintenance sheets pausing every once in awhile to check some area of the car against the manifest. After fifteen minutes of sitting on his heels, digging grease out from under his fingernails, Dean looked up as Bobby came back over to him and handed him the clipboard. “Call him up and tell him it’s unworkable. It’d be cheaper for him to buy a whole new car, fully resorted then to fix up this hunk of junk. There’s not much left in it that we could reuse so it’d pretty much be all new, anyway. Don’t waste your time on it, I’ve got better things for you to be doing than to be some overstuffed rich guy’s auxiliary staff in my garage. I won’t even take this hunk of scrap to my yard.”

 

Dean saluted his boss with the clipboard, “Yessir.” Bobby rolled his eyes and turned to go back into the office. “And chew some gum or something. Your breath smells like an ashtray.”

  
Dropping his hand to his side Dean watched the older man walk away, sighing in relief internally. The smoking was doing its job.


	5. Kettle Chips and Irish Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean really needs to keep track of how much alcohol he's taking in, but how else is he supposed to make it to the end of the day? Also, long-haired cafe owners are getting weirder as time goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry if the car stuff isn't right. Hopefully you guys are liking this story so far! I'm really enjoying writing it.

Dean tossed the pen into the chipped coffee mug on the office desk and slid the paper clip onto the stack of order forms he’d been working through. He’d been on the phone almost all afternoon looking for a master cylinder for a ‘76 Trans Am. The worst part of restoring classic cars was getting the damn parts together to actually _work_ on them. At least he’d found clutch plates for ‘69 Camaro Ss that was brought in last week.

 

The green eyed mechanic yawned widely as he flipped the switch on the outside of the office off, plunging the interior into darkness. It sure was getting dark earlier now that Summer was over. Making sure the front door to the shop clicked closed behind him Dean made his way across the small parking lot over to his pride and joy. Baby sure didn’t get those long road trips she was used to anymore, but she was faithful as always. Sometimes if another mechanic had to move her for a customer to park her engine wouldn’t turn over, but that was just loyalty. Dean knew all the right places to stroke her to get her up and raring.

 

Running a hand lovingly over the hood he opened the creaking door and slid into the comforting embrace of leather, motor oil, and coffee. Noticing the empty paper cup on the passenger side floor he had the sudden urge to go back to that coffee shop he’d visited this morning. The joe was really good and he had noticed that they offered actual food, not just pastries, on their chalkboard menu. It’s not like it wasn’t on the way home. Plus he wasn’t in the mood to go home, at the moment.

 

Turning the key in the ignition Baby roared to life, reminding the neighbourhood that not all of the classic cars on this lot were in pieces. Patting the dashboard Dean pulled out of his space and over to the gate. Ash had begged Bobby to upgrade the outdated chain and masterlock a few years back and the mechanic threw a thankful thought towards his coworker for being insistent that they needed better security because it saved his lazy ass from getting out of the warmth of his car in the chilling evening air. It’s not like it was cold, even, Dean just liked his comforts. Cranking the window down he reached out to punch in his code to make the electronic gate slide open for him to exit and keyed in the night alarm before rolling Baby out into the street.

 

Twilight was the worst time of day. Dean hated the haze of street lights, headlights, and sunset. The light played too many tricks on his eyes. Without looking he reached over to the glove compartment, pulled out a tape, and pushed it into the old tape deck. Turning the volume up too high he tapped the steering wheel and hummed along to the resonating bass of Metallica. It always helped to calm him down when he was feeling like this.

 

Before he knew it Dean was rolling up to Heavenly Coffee and he was looking around for a parking space. There were quite a few cars parked around here for a Monday evening. This area was popular with the college-aged crowd. There were a few too many men in skinny jeans around for Dean’s liking. Why would a dude want to do that to himself? It couldn’t be good for the family jewels much less your pride.

 

Finally finding a spot where no one would scratch Baby the green eyed mechanic parked and stiffly climbed out of the driver’s seat. He must have been tensing his back as he drove, he didn’t remember being this sore after he’d finished tuning up the last car of the day. Cracking his back as he walked towards the inviting smell of coffee, cinnamon, and bread, Dean wondered if he could book the same masseuse that Sam had taken him to a few years ago. There was too much kale and gong banging for his tastes but the lady sure had known what she was doing with her hands. He wouldn’t mind a private session or two.

 

The tinkling from the bells attached to the door was almost entirely drowned out by the conversations filling the small cafe. Dean blinked in surprise as he came back to reality from his massage fantasy. There were way more people in here than he’d ever expected. Tattooed and pierced high school students and hipsters in their mid-twenties took up almost every seat, including people perched on couch arms and one guy who wasn’t wearing shoes who was sitting on the floor. The barista behind the counter wasn’t the same guy from this morning, it was a lanky woman who made one strongly think of classic depictions of death. Her skin was so pale Dean wondered when the last time she was outside during the day was and her self-dyed black hair was chopped unevenly like steps trailing down her back in a strange mullet-like fashion. He wasn’t entirely convinced she hadn’t just gotten gum stuck in it while she was on shift and hadn’t had a chance to fix it.

 

But his stomach was strongly reminding him that it had been quite a few hours since his sandwich at lunch and that he needed something to cushion the whiskey he’d swigged on the ride here from his glovebox _Did I really take a drink while I was driving here? I don’t remember that._ He frowned at himself as he walked up to the counter. Distracted by his thoughts he ordered the first thing on the menu that sounded edible (seriously, why does _everything_ have to have Organic KaleTM on it these days?!) along with the largest coffee they served. Taking his paper cup to the self-serve coffee station he filled it three quarters with coffee and liberally added half-and-half and sugar. No reason to put a hole in his stomach more than he already was with the alcohol. Plus he liked the sugary creaminess that always resulted from the blonde concoction his coffee always ended up being.

 

He found a rickety chair wedged in the corner near the bathrooms with a tiny table to sit at and claimed his space. _Maybe this place isn’t the best idea in the evenings_ he thought as he took a sip of his beverage. Conversations ebbed and swelled around him, enveloping him in sound as much as they excluded him from socializing. There really were too many people in here, the windows had condensation running down them from the heat and the press of bodies was making Dean’s skin feel tight and itchy. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose. _Calm down, man. This isn’t as bad as those dive bars dad used to take us to. At least this place smells a hell of a lot better. Hey, woah it smells a LOT better_.

 

“Are you meditating or something?”

 

Dean’s eyes popped open and focused on the person holding a plate almost overflowing with ruffled potato chips and sandwich on thick sliced bread. It was the same guy from this morning.

 

“I mean, you sure looked like you could have used some meditation this morning so I’m not gonna knock you for trying, but you seem kinda tense for something that’s supposed to relax you.” He shot Dean a shit eating grin and Dean scowled back at him.

 

“Is that mine?” He gestured towards the plate.

 

“Nah. It’s for the surly loner next to you.”

 

Dean continued to scowl at the blonde.

 

“Sheesh, you’ve got no sense of humour. Lighten up, dude. Yeah, this is your roast beef on sourdough with house-made potato chips.” He set the plate down on the tiny table with a clink and slid it closer to Dean. “Feel free to top off your coffee, too; Grand Opening special.” Dean could hear the capital letters.

 

“Thanks.” He leaned forward picking up a sandwich half and started to take a bite but stopped halfway to his mouth and looked up at the guy who was still standing in front of his table. “What?” he growled.

 

The long haired man held up his hands, palms at his chest, “Woah, man. No need to snarl, I’m just curious about something.” He paused, looking at Dean with his head cocked slightly to the side.

 

Dean dropped his wrists to the table and leaned back with a sigh. Was he ever going to get to eat his dinner? “What’s so confusing?”

 

The short man dropped his hands to his sides and shrugged. “It’s just, you don’t really fit into the usual clientele of a place like this on a weekday evening. And you obviously were at work at ass-o’clock this morning so I’m wondering what brings you back in? I mean, I own this place so you’d just be helping me figure out how I can market to a wider variety of money spenders if there’s something that drew you back in the same day you made your first visit.”

 

Dean blinked stupidly. _What the hell…?_ “Uh, what?”

 

The man chuckled. “Hey, don’t break something. Forget it, man. Enjoy your sandwich.” The blonde turned to go back behind the counter where Death lady was scowling at the redhead making drinks at the espresso bar.

 

 _That_ dude was the owner? Dean stared at the swinging door that the long haired man had walked through which obviously led to some sort of kitchen or storage room. This place definitely wasn’t his normal kind of spot.

 

The smell of juicy roast and pickled peppers wafted up from the sandwich he still held half of in his limp hands reminded his stomach firmly that he had still not eaten. Shaking himself from his reverie the mechanic took a bite of his sandwich, followed quickly by a second and third. This was the most amazing roast beef sandwich he’d ever tasted. Granted most of the places he ate at were greasy spoon diners or drive thru since he didn’t have time to cook for himself, but this sandwich was _bomb_.

 

The bread was lightly toasted to keep the juice from the perfectly spiced beef from soaking through to your fingers and it was obviously fresh. The sourness of the pickles and bread were balanced in the savoury mix of spices and good meat. More of the roast beef juice was in a small cup on the plate just in case you wanted an extra kick. Dean grabbed a chip and placed it on his tongue, pushing the ridges to the roof of his mouth like when he and Sammy were kids and would dare each other to hold something salty there long enough to give themselves burns. Dean always lost those dares cus he wanted to eat the chips more than win.

 

Dean pushed those thoughts away as he continued to eat. This place really wasn’t half-bad. It might have a little too many lights on and have a significant lack of alcohol for his usual tastes, but if the rest of the menu was as good as this sandwich he could ignore the faults. Wiping his hands off on a thin napkin the green-eyed mechanic peeked into his coffee cup. _Huh, empty_ , he thought. _Well long-haired dude did say that refills were free today_ . Standing up from the table he walked over to the airpots and filled his cup three-quarters full and added just a splash of cream, leaving ample room for an amber liquid top off when he got back to the car. As he was putting grabbing a to-go lid he noticed a line of rubber tubs under the counter that had varying levels of dirty dishes piled in them. _Maybe this place isn’t so great. They’re gonna get flies and rats if they leave their shit out like. Wonder if their dishwasher quit already_.

 

“‘Scuse me.” A guy in skinny jeans way too tight to be considered healthy and a ratty shirt boldly advertising a fake laundry detergent in peeling letters walked up to the coffee counter, hands laden with dirty plates and a cup precariously balanced on top of them. Dean slid back and watched as the guy ducked down and placed his plates in the quickly filling rubber tubs. A girl with bright pink hair traded places with skinny jeans guy and put her empty coffee mug in the same tub before returning to her group of friends. Dean blinked. _Guess this place is self-serve_ and _self-clean. They must save a fortune on salaries_. Making sure his coffee lid was on securely Dean made his way back to his table and gathered up his plate and deposited it in the receptacle before heading back to the car.

  
Once the dull roar of the Impala filled the night air the blonde reached under the passenger seat and poured a generous helping of whiskey into his coffee. Taking a sip he grimaced. _Too much. Damn. Can’t take it out now, don’t want to waste it._ Taking another gulp he put the car into drive and pulled out onto the road to head home. _At least this way I’ll be able to fall right to sleep_.


	6. Hangovers and Hangups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica takes charge while Sam is pitiful.

It was swelteringly hot. The humid air stuck Sam’s too thick shirt uncomfortably to his skin, not to mention the terrible things happening in his groin region. Lifting a hand to wipe his stringy hair off his forehead he used the movement to shield his eyes from the blinding sunlight. There had to be water nearby. It simply wasn’t possible for the air to be this damn humid without there being a water source close by. Adam’s apple bobbing tightly he stumbled onwards, tripping occasionally over protruding roots. _Where the hell am I? How could I have gotten lost so quickly?_

 

“D- _cough_ -ean?!” he called hoarsely into the dense jungle. “Dad?! Hello!”

 

Sam stopped abruptly as rustling to his right caught his attention. A slim, buxom figure slid out from between two enormous leaves.

 

“Hey, stranger. You coming back to Earth?” The blonde tilted her head to the side causing her loose hair to tumble in waves over her shoulder. “Hello? You with me, Sammy? I’m drinking all the coffee if you don’t get your butt up right now.”

 

Sam came to blearily, wincing at the light streaming through the partially open blinds in the guest room of his apartment. Jess was standing over him, mug of coffee held just out of reach from where he was laying on the futon. Her head was cocked to the side, blonde waves catching the mid-morning sunlight giving her a golden halo. Sam groaned.

 

“Ah, he lives! Good. I don’t have to call the coroner and answer all those pesky questions about why I murdered you when you were already dead.” Jess turned on her heel and padded out the door, presumably to make true on her earlier threat to drink all the coffee before Sam could make it to the kitchen.

 

Sam’s head throbbed in a way that couldn’t possibly be in sync with his pulse and he squeezed his eyes shut tight against the abrasive light threatening to make his head explode. Groaning again he threw an arm onto the back of the closed futon to leverage himself up. Mistake. Sprinting to the bathroom he barely made it before he was heaving his rotten, liquid insides all over white porcelain. Well at least some of it made it into the bowl. He gagged pitifully and continued to empty his regrets, whimpering like a three-day-old puppy.

 

When his activities degenerated into dry heaves and heavy panting and he felt like his arms and knees wouldn’t hold up his weight anymore he felt a cool, damp towel at the back of his neck and a warm, dry hand smoothing back his hair that was plastered to his sweaty forehead. Sam closed his eyes and let Jess’s gentle but firm grip sit him back against the corner between the door and the tub. He concentrated on breathing through his nose, eyes shut not only because it was too much effort to keep them open but also because the bathroom light had been turned on at some point during his dry heaving.

 

“Drink this slowly.” He felt a cold glass pressed into his hand and pushed up to his lips. He took a tiny sip of the water, only enough to wet his lips really, before letting his arm drop back down into his lap. Thankfully the glass was only partially full otherwise it would have spilled all over his pants. Not that it really mattered because he could smell the beer sweats oozing out of his pores and knew that he and his clothes would need a good washing before they could be presentable to the general public.

 

The general public. Public. Oh shit! He’d missed work!!! Hazel eyes snapped open and almost immediately closed again because the light sent rods of pain shooting through his spine. Struggling against the edge of the tub Sam managed to orient his limbs into a standing position.

 

“Woah there, tiger! Where’s the fire?” Jess placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from careening headlong into the opposite wall of the hallway.

 

“I missed my shift. Gotta call Uriel to see if I’m fired.”

  
“Don’t worry about it, Sam. I called him last night after you blacked out. Told him you had a super high fever and you were on bedrest. You can probably get out of your shift today, too. Just say your fever broke but you need to rehydrate or your voice will be worthless.” Blue eyes pierced into Sam. “It’s not even a lie, honestly. You seriously look like shit.”   
  
Sam heaved a sigh of relief. Uriel might be the biggest douchebag to ever manage such an impression heavy company. But it all had to do with how your phone presence with customers went over, not how you treated your employees, probably.

 

Clutching the water glass to his chest Sam leaned towards his girlfriend. “Thank you so much, sweetheart.”

 

Jessica ducked away from Sam’s wet lips quickly. Not hard considering he had to lean down about a mile to get to her. “Woah, there. Nuh uh! Nope. Not even gonna happen,” she bit out each phrase with her hands waving between them. “You seriously smell like a bar bathroom, right now. And I’m still mad at you for getting shit-faced yesterday for no known reason.” The blonde put up one, stern finger directly in Sam’s face, causing him to stumble back a bit due to his hangover induced lack of balance. “And I really don’t want an explanation at the moment.”

 

Peering past Sam back into the bathroom Jessica closed her eyes and heaved a sigh. “Please go into the kitchen and eat something that won’t make you throw up again. I’m going to clean up this,” she gestured towards the vomit covered toilet and floor, “and you’ll take a shower. Once that’s all over with I want a full play-by-play on why you thought it would be a grand idea to skip work, get drunk alone, and miss your Tuesday classes.”

 

Jessica kept eye-contact with Sam for a beat before moving past him towards the linen closet to get cleaning supplies. Sam twisted to watch her pass, hanging his head. He took another sip of the water before heading into the kitchen to scrounge up something that would soak up the alcohol currently causing cirrhosis in his liver. She was right. It wasn’t ok what he’d done and shame was creeping up his neck causing his face to flush splotchy. _She’s not gonna understand. I don’t know what I’m gonna tell her._

  
“Hey, my brother has vivid hallucinations that made him almost kill our dad and I had class about it,” the brunette muttered as he opened the fridge. Bare shelves and the ripped box of beer made him scowl. Closing the door with more force than necessary he sneered, “Yeah, right. Like that would go over well.”


	7. Sobering Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean comes out of his fog

Dean cupped his aching head between his palms. _How much did I drink last night?_ Reaching under the bed by his feet he felt around for the bottle he always kept there. He felt it clink against his hand and roll further under the bed. Groaning he slid to the floor, back to the mattress and leaned over to look underneath. Large, dead eyes stared back at him. Blonde hair lank and wet clung to the pale face twisted unnaturally in his direction, her blue lips parted in surprise. Dean yelled and threw himself back from the bed, crashing into the dresser. Stars dancing in front of his eyes he craned his head to peek under the bed, again.

 

Dirty socks, a shoe, and a few bottles. No body except a few dust bunny corpses. Breathing deeply through his nose he squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed at them until he saw white. _This is not my week, man._ Giving up on the bottles under the bed Dean stood with the help of the dresser and stumbled towards the bathroom. Not even glancing at the mirror above the sink he stepped out of his sweat and got into the shower before turning it on. A blast of cold water woke the green-eyed man fully. Cursing he jumped back and turned the faucet as hot as possible, goosebumps breaking out all over his body.

 

Sliding back under the warming spray the mechanic scrubbed furiously at his skin trying to get the fear-sweat and alcohol smell off. By the time the water started getting too hot he was done. Flicking the faucet off and sweeping the shower curtain out of the way he reached for the towel rack as he dashed water from his eyes. He touched the cold metal and looked over at the bare rack. _Damnit! This is_ not _my day._

 

Dean stepped out of the tub onto the bare floor and leaned back behind the toilet, groping with his dripping hand before making purchase around the long neck of a bottle. Drawing back he sat at the edge of the cold tub, water pooling at his feet, and spun the lid off a bottle of amber liquid. _Still half full; at least something is going my way_ . Raising the bottle to his lips the aroma of the alcohol hit his nose and he jerked it away gagging. It had gone bad. _How long have I had that bottle back there? Shit!_

 

Scowling, Dean screwed the lid back on and tossed the bottle into the laundry basket behind the bathroom door. It clinked against several empty beer cans that were also in with his dirty clothes. He frowned. _This place is a total stye. I need to clear this shit out before I get rats. Wait. How long has it been since I bought groceries? Damnit. I’m getting bad, again._

 

The discarded sweatpants were absorbing the water that was running across the dirty floor in streams. Dean cringed as he picked them up and dumped them on top of the beer and whiskey bottles in his laundry basket. He stepped towards the sink and noticed toothpaste spots on the faucet and a ring around the drain. _Fuck. This is disgusting. When was the last time I cleaned??_ Skin starting to crawl he stepped into the hallway and opened the half-sized linen cabinet to grab a clean towel (the last one) and headed back into the bedroom to get dressed.

 

Dean made mental plans to stop by the store on his lunch break to pick up cleaning supplies and groceries while he tugged a tan Henley over his head and grabbed the least grease stained jeans from the floor to slip into. Grabbing his watch and keys from the bedside table he headed out into the hall, checking the time as he strapped the watch to his wrist: 6:05 am. _Damn. I don’t have time to stop by that place to get coffee this morning. Hangover slowed me down. I’ll have to do with the shop coffee_. He scowled as he hit the crash bar on the apartment complex door to the parking lot. The shop coffee was crap. They never washed the pot out and sometimes Ash would just heat up the coffee left in the pot from the day before instead of throwing it out to make a fresh pot. The true downside of a hangover morning was not getting drinkable coffee. The mechanic scowled all the way to work, grumbling to himself as he passed Heavenly Coffee.

 

The morning passed without incident or excitement in the garage. As predicted, Ash had reheated yesterday’s coffee, resulting in the four cheap creamers Dean added to the sludge to curdle. It wasn’t until Dean clocked out for lunch that he remembered his plans to pick up supplies so he let Ash know he’d be back in an hour. There was a little deli mart down the street from the shop, but it was only good for buying lunch or alcohol, maybe a banana if you were feeling a bout of scurvy setting in. Dean had to wade into lunch hour traffic to drive down to the nearest Stop & Shop to pick up real groceries and some cleaning supplies. Living outside of Wichita city limits was nice for his typical commute but it was times like this that he hated living so close to a big city. Rushing through the store Dean grabbed just the essentials for groceries before hitting the cleaning supplies isles and booking it back to the car. He only bought enough food to last a few days so that he could fit it into the little fridge in the office. The cleaning supplies could stay in the trunk and he’d have to go back to the grocery store later in the week after he assessed the damage in his apartment tonight.

 

High-tailing it back to the garage Dean cursed, noticing that he would have to park down the block because of the influx of customer cars in the parking lot. You’d think that Bobby would have just bought the vacant lot next door and expanded the garage and parking by now. That lot had been empty for the past year and it wasn’t doing anything for Dean’s blood pressure what with vandalism and the occasional suburban teen attempt at a rave. Parking Baby down a side street wasn’t ideal for his peace of mind, but he was already cutting it close on his lunch hour and he wasn’t about to get accused of slacking off by the other guys. They already bitched and moaned about him being “the favourite,” what with Bobby being his pseudo-father. Dean scowled, ducking his head against the rain that was just starting to come down in icy drops. Bobby never played favourites, Dean just had a way with classic cars and if that meant that he would get a tip from the customer when he was done with projects sometimes that wasn’t his fault.

 

Stomping his feet and shaking out his hair with his free hand he weaved past the front counter into the back room. Dean stashed the groceries in the nearly empty fridge, grabbing a water bottle and a banana out of the basket that was always kept stocked with fresh fruit. The office secretary was afraid that the guys were going to come down with some pirate diseases so she kept a rotating supply of apples and bananas or the occasional orange in the back room. Dean thanked her with a smile as he went back into the garage. This was all the lunch he was going to get since his errand had taken up more time than he’d bargained for.

 

The rest of the work day dragged as Dean’s stomach strongly reminded him that he hadn’t eaten anything substantial since his sandwich at the cafe last night. Reverting to childhood techniques, he downed about a gallon of water over the course of the rest of the day to stave off any embarrassing rumbles and to hopefully calm down his system until it was time to clock out. It certainly wouldn’t be the longest he’d gone without a meal, so he didn’t complain.

 

After clocking out Dean swung through a drive thru to grab a quick burger and ate most of it by the time he got to his complex. He had an agenda and a nasty feeling it would take him all night to get through all the tasks. Licking salt and grease from his fingers he grabbed the cleaning supplies out of his trunk and lugged them up to Disaster Area #1. Honestly the apartment wasn’t that bad, it’s not like there were molding dishes in the sink and grime everywhere. But when Dean pulled out of an episode he always felt like he needed to scour his entire place until surgery could be performed on the kitchen counters. If he couldn’t clear the cobwebs out of his head he could at least make sure that there wasn’t a speck of dust in his physical space.

 

By the end of the night there were two full bags of trash to be taken to the dumpster (one was entirely alcohol containers in various stages of emptiness), three loads of laundry clean and folded, a new shower curtain on the rod, and the whole place smelled strongly of bleach and windex. Tired, and a little sore from scrubbing on his knees, but satisfied Dean dropped onto clean sheets and fell asleep almost instantly.

  
The sound of the alarm waking him at 5am wasn’t exactly welcome, but the clean feeling of the sheets around him and the lack of dust and clothes on the floor in his room did wonders for his state of mind. He shambled into the shower and smiled softly to himself, _I’m definitely getting a donut with my coffee this morning_.


	8. Travel Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you're enjoying this fic, so far! Let me know what you think in the comments or stop by my tumblr and shoot me a message :) dragonflesh.tumblr.com

Sam was in a bad mood all week. He’d passed off his drinking escapade as just his bad way of blowing off steam from how stressed he was with mid-terms coming up and final project deadlines looming around the corner. Needless to say Jessica wasn’t exactly happy with his answers. She could tell he was evading the truth, but she didn’t push it.

 

“If you don’t want to talk about it with me, that’s fine, Sam. But I think you should talk with _someone_ ,” she stared at him intently while he avoided eye contact. “I’m no psychologist, but I wouldn’t consider drinking 15 beers in one sitting, by yourself the healthiest way to deal with stress.”

 

Sam’s face twisted at her words. “You’re right. You’re not a psychologist, so maybe you shouldn’t try to analyse this situation and blow it out of proportion,” he snapped. “It was a lapse in judgement. I’m not perfect, Jessica.”

 

Sam hated the way his girlfriend had recoiled from the anger in his voice. He blamed the hangover on his insensitivity and had spent the next few days trying to apologize for his behaviour with flowers and words, which Jess accepted silently. But he was clearly still in the dog house and had taken to falling asleep on the couch while doing homework. It didn’t help matters much that Uriel had it out for Sam at work for his missed shifts. Thankfully he’d helped a big client’s manager with a virus that was clearing out files in the server, even recovering about a hundred documents that were a big deal. Sometimes being a nerd had it’s advantages.

 

In his three and a half years at Stanford he had rarely skipped a class when he wasn’t ill or because Uriel had screwed up his work schedule, but he decided that it would be better to err on the side of caution by not going to his psych course the rest of this week. He emailed the professor apologizing for his absence and to ask if the course schedule would still include abnormal psychology at the end of the semester or (he crossed his fingers) did this week’s changes take place of that (no such luck, they would still be covering ab. psy. at the end of the semester, “This was just a treat week!”). Sam had avoided taking Intro to Psychology with his other gen ed courses until the last minute. He even tried to see if there was an online course he could take so that he could just cram it all in over a couple weekends, but he would have had to take two courses to meet Stanford’s credit requirements and fuck that!

 

The only upside was that the guest lecture on hallucinations wouldn’t be included in the mid-term. The rest of the week passed quickly while Sam buried himself in the stacks studying for his final projects and researching potential internships he could get a leg up on for next year. First year law students rarely got internships, but Sam was nothing if not an overachiever. By the time Friday rolled around he was feeling more steady and was even back in (somewhat delicate) good graces with Jess. He had forgotten all about his plans to Skype with Dean until his pocket buzzed at 11pm on Friday asking if Sam was planning on sleeping in on Saturday or if they could talk before noon. Shifting Jess in his arms from where she was curled up on the couch while they caught up on Game of Thrones, Sam extracted his phone from his pocket and agreed to be online at 10 the next morning to confirm holiday plans with Dean.

 

“Who was that?” Jess asked, eyes still fixed to the screen where yet another main character was getting brutally hacked to bits.

 

Sam snapped his phone closed, placing it on the coffee table. “Dean. We’re gonna Skype tomorrow to talk about travel stuff.”

 

Jess cringed and covered her eyes with splayed fingers as the blood on screen continued, “Ugh.” Tilting her head against Sam’s shoulder to look at his face she grimaced, “This show really love that shock factor. I’m glad you finally have some time to talk with your brother, it’s been a while.”

 

Sam shifted uncomfortably under her. “Yeah, well…”

 

“Hey, I get it,” she raised her hands in a placating gesture. “I’m not scolding you! I’m really glad that you’re getting to talk with Dean. You guys are both so busy I know it’s hard to connect. Family is important.” The blonde smiled up at Sam gently.

 

Brushing a hand across her cheek he leaned in to kiss her once, twice. “I love you, you know that?” he murmured, breath whispering across her lips.

 

Stealing another smiling kiss Jess pulled back to stand, “You’d better. I’m a _catch_.”

 

Huffing out a pleased chuckle Sam twisted around to stretch and stand up, flicking off the screen as the end credits rolled into a preview of next week’s episode.

 

“Time for bed, tiger. It’s been a long week,” Jess reached out a hand towards Sam from where she was standing in the hallway. Sam could feel the tight spot in his chest relax as he linked fingers with his girlfriend and followed her to their bedroom. He slept better than he had all week, wrapped around the curvy woman who didn’t put up with his bullshit but who also didn’t drop him when things got weird. And his life was just a bag of weird, how couldn’t it be with the family he had.

 

Sam woke to the smell of coffee and weak sunlight peaking through the sides of the drapes. 9:45am. He had enough time to grab a cup of coffee and a piece of toast before booting up the computer in the office to log on to Skype. Jess had already left for work, she volunteered at the free clinic on campus on weekends to get practice in for when she would be a nurse. But she had made enough coffee for Sam to have a mug full, liberally doused with French vanilla creamer. Taking his breakfast into the office he logged on to Skype, toast between his lips.

 

The little chime went off and he clicked the window to open up a video chat.

 

“Hey, bitch! I know I said wear something sexy but I didn’t expect to see that much skin when it’s still light out.”

 

“Shut up, Dean. I just got up and it’s, like, 80 degrees here, jerk.”

 

The older Winchester chuckled, taking a sip from a paper cup with a hand stamped logo on the side. “Do you not have Winter there? Ever? Sounds like paradise to me.”

 

“We’re in a drought, doofus. The whole state is turning into a desert,” Sam started up.

 

“Woah, woah, there, Poindexter,” the green-eyed brother waved his hand in front of the camera. “I didn’t get online to get a lesson on the environment. There are so many better things I can do with a wifi connection.” He smirked, waggling his eyebrows.

 

“Gross,” it was Sam’s turn to wave his hand in front of the camera. “I really don’t want to hear about your monthly subscription to BustyAsianBeauties.com, Dean. Let’s just talk about travel stuff, ok?”

 

Dean took another draw from the cup, smiling around the plastic lid. “Yeah, yeah. I guess I taught you enough about that crap when you were younger.” He chuckled over Sam’s groan. “So, Thanksgiving…”

 

Sam’s blush faded as the two got into the conversation about travel and what family was getting together when as the year was coming to a close.

 

“Bobby, Ellen, and Jo expect us for Christmas, as usual,” Dean waved a dismissive hand. “But do you’re sure that you won’t be able to make it out here for Thanksgiving?”

 

Sam sighed and ducked his head down. “I’m just so bogged down with exams and Jess’s family invited us to San Diego to celebrate with them,” he rubbed a hand at the back of his neck.

 

“Nah, man. Don’t sweat it,” Dean shrugged. If Sam didn’t know his brother as well as he did he might have missed the real disappointment in his eyes. Even over a shitty connection, Sam could tell his brother missed him.

 

“Tell you what, though,” Sam said, sitting up closer to the screen. “Jess and I were talking a few weeks ago and we’d love for you to come out and visit us in the Spring.” Dean’s eyes lit up like it was already Christmas. “I’ll be done with my undergrad and have all my paperwork ready for grad school so I’ll have free time,” Sam smiled into the camera. “You’ve only been to Stanford once since I started school and I’d love for you and Jess to get some time to get to know each other away from family.”

 

Dean’s eyes softened, “You’re really into this chick, huh, Sammy?”

 

“Yeah, I’d say living together for the past year is pretty serious, Dean,” Sam laughed. “Whadya say? Will you come?”

 

Dean chuckled, “I can see you’re chomping at the bit. Sure I’ll come to eternal Summer land.” He sobered suddenly, “You just gotta promise me one thing.”

“What?” Sam’s forehead wrinkled in concern at his brother’s serious tone.

 

“You gotta promise me that I can take you to a karaoke place so I can completely embarrass you in front of your girl.”

 

Sam scowled as the deep laugh of his older brother warbled across the connection. “You’re such a douche.”

 

“Bye, bitch.”

 

“Jerk,” Sam stabbed the end call button, squinting at the frozen image of his brother on the screen. He stayed there a moment longer before closing out of Skype and taking the last sip of stone cold, overly creamy coffee and getting up to start his weekend.

  
As he rinsed out his mug the lanky man smiled softly to himself. Things were good. Life was getting back on track.


	9. Hackers and Sweets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendly banter over the counter and trying to keep it together

Dean fell into a routine promising himself, as he always did, that he wouldn’t let things get out of control again. This time he’d stay clean and sober, eat regularly, do his laundry, and get eight hours of sleep. Vigilance was the best way to keep the nightmares at bay. And if it weren’t for the lure of Heavenly Cafe’s coffee and pastries in the mornings the mechanic’s resolve would have fallen apart by now, as it always did before. But, damn, if it wasn’t the best cup of coffee and the most delicious pastries he’d ever had.

 

The alarm, shower, and drive were never what woke him in the mornings. It was the smell of cinnamon in the air outside the cafe and the slightly acrid scent from the roaster that ran every morning. It was the first sip of smooth brewed coffee and the bite of pastry fairly dripping with butter and bursting with flavour. His clock might buzz at 5am, but lately his real wake-up call was the ring of the cash register. And this morning was no different.

 

“Hey, Dean.”

 

“Morning, Charlie,” Dean sauntered up to the counter, breathing deeply over the red-head’s shoulder as she stocked it from the front. “What’s on today?”

 

“Gabe’s been on this berry kick, as you know,” she rolled her eyes as Dean nodded in acknowledgement. “But I think I finally convinced him that he needs to change it up. Throw some spice in the mix, you know?” She stepped back from the glass case, closing the front with one hand. Dean basically drooled at what was sitting in her other hand. Charlie closed her eyes and breathed in dramatically, wafting her free hand over the pastry towards her face. “Do you smell that? That, my friend, is the sweet, sweet smell of artery clogging, melted, gooey deliciousness.”

 

Golden brown on the edges, liquid sunshine in the middle with perfectly placed dots of deep purple. Dean may not be an art buff, but that blackberry danish in front of him deserved a place in the National Gallery or the Louvre or some other place where art was kept.

 

Dean shook his head as Charlie snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Dean. Should I give you two a room?” Green eyes focused on the pale, smirking face just level with his chest and he cleared his throat, ears turning slightly pink.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Bradbury. I’ll just take it out of your tip.”

 

Charlie gave an exaggerated pout before breaking into a broad grin. She turned on a heel and whisked behind the counter, drawing a sound of protest from Dean as she took the treat with her. “Do you know what you would like this morning, sir?” she quipped as she approached the cash register. “We have some lovely bran muffins and we’re famous for our whole wheat bagels. Here’s the tea list, in case you’re looking for something bright to start your morning off with. I suggest the peppermint; it has just a dash of tarragon in it to give it a zing.”

 

Dean stared at the barista, mouth slightly open and forehead creased. Charlie looked back at him, professional mask firmly in place as she gave him an empty smile along with the laminated tea list. “Not funny,” Dean whined. “Coffee. And that danish, if you know what’s good for you.”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. Danishes are only for _tipping_ customers. So pay up or,” she shrugged her slim shoulders, chuckling.

 

The double-hinged door to the back room swung open, reverberating oddly behind Charlie making her (and Dean) jump. A short man with long blonde hair swept back from his forehead sauntered through the doorway, lollipop planted firmly in his cheek.

 

“Are you harassing customers for tips again, woman? Don’t I pay you enough as it is?” he passed by the red-head, waving a lazy hand towards Dean as he planted himself in front of the espresso machine.

 

“I was just _reminding_ our regular customers that tipping isn’t a ‘when I feel like it’ occurance,” Charlie leaned into the cash register, laying her cheek on the screen. “If I have to drag myself here after a full night of raiding enemy camps and protecting guild assets to provide caffeine for them at ass-o’clock in the morning the least they can do is put a dollar in the tip jar.”

 

Dean watched in repulsed fascination as the cafe owner pulled two shots of espresso into a tiny cup and downed the bitter liquid, not even bothering to remove the bulbous candy pushing out his cheek. The guy still didn’t look or act like the owner of a business, in Dean’s opinion. He always wore Hawaiian print shirts tucked into acid wash denim (“It’s ironic, Dean-o!”) or piles of scarves over shirts with screen prints of dogs in sunglasses smoking joints. And the guy was always eating candy. It was a miracle he wasn’t wider than he was tall.

 

“That’s your choice, sweetheart,” he clicked the tiny cup down on the back counter. “I don’t exactly go to bed at 8pm, myself. Too busy pleasing the ladies at the clubs, the men, too, if they’re into that sort of thing. But you don’t see me complaining when you come in _after_ I’m already here. Them’s the breaks for being an upstanding citizen.”

 

“Ok, ok, I get it. More work, less talk.”

 

“ _That’s_ the spirit, kiddo! Enjoy your Danish, Dean-o!” he patted Charlie on the arm and headed back into the kitchen as a buzzer started to whine on one of the ovens.

 

Charlie rolled her eyes and pushed the danish across the counter towards Dean, leaving a greasy track despite the crinkly paper housing the treat. “You want the coffee for here or are you on early shift today?”

 

“Yeah, I’m gotta head out,” the mechanic grunted as Charlie punched in his order on her screen. “Some rich asshole is bringing his overpriced plastic car in. Says it got damaged in shipping and needs it ship shape for some event next week.”

 

“Thrilling,” Charlie deadpanned. “Oh, hey! Tell Ash I can get those passcodes for him if he’s got that part I need to finish my decryption coder.”

 

Dean moved down the counter towards the airpots, choosing the Rot Gut roast to fill his paper cup. It was gonna be one of those days where he needed bitter coffee to keep him focused on not telling customers what he really thought of their autocare. “I won’t remember any of that. Write it down for me and I’ll slip him the note between gym and biology.”

 

The red-head gave Dean a bitch face but ripped a piece of receipt paper out of the dispenser and jotted down something in code and fluttered it in his face. Dean batted her hand out of his face and grabbed the paper, pocketing it. “Of all the coffee shops in the world I have to pick the one with the barista who used to be hacker buddies with my shop’s assistant.” Charlie smiled sweetly at him as he took a sip of his coffee. “See ya later, kid.”

 

He waved as he headed out the door into the chilly, Autumn air. The sun wasn’t even up, really, and there was an unnatural quality to the world. Dean hated days like this. Having to get to the shop first and roll back the gate in the mist that always clung to the ground in the colder months. Having to walk into the shop office, eerily lit by the safety lights in the back office. Hearing his echoing footsteps bounce off of metal and cement, the sound delayed by the largeness of the space. It made the hair on Dean’s arms and the back of his neck stand up. The only thing that could chase the cold feeling away from the pit of his stomach was by blasting Led Zeppelin on the sound system. If he wasn’t good for anything else (and he was good for a shit ton more than just that), Ash was a saint for convincing Bobby that the broken down boombox just wasn’t gonna cut it when they expanded the garage so they installed a surround sound system you could actually hear over the welding and banging and yelling that always took place in a busy mechanic shop.

 

But as much as he loved Zep, he’d rather spend his mornings drinking coffee and shooting the breeze with Charlie or trying to read one of the books Charlie insisted he should have read _ages_ _ago_ which all seemed to be made into movies already so why bother? Definitely couldn’t let Sammy know about the reading. He wasn’t trying to take the nerd title in the family, Charlie was just especially pushy about these sorts of things and it made him laugh.

  
Sliding into the still-warm Impala was like getting wrapped in comfort. Dean permitted himself the luxury of leaning back against the worn leather seat, closing his eyes for a moment. Tendrils of steam reached up towards the windshield, threatening to turn the glass frosted. Sighing heavily Dean turned the key, bursting the morning silence with his Baby’s roar and pulled out into the street. Today was gonna suck.


	10. Douchbags and Dollar Signs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean opens the shop and meets with big-money clients to get some high roller accounts for the garage.

Turns out Dean was only alone in the shop for about fifteen minutes. Traveling Riverside Blues had just ended and Enter Sandman’s thumping baseline was vibrating into Dean’s chest through the floor where he was on his back under a car when someone kicked his boot. Dean jerked and saw stars as he smashed his head on the undercarriage.

 

“What in tarnation you doin’, boy?”

 

Clutching one hand to his throbbing forehead the green-eyed mechanic leveraged the other to roll out from under the car. Palm covering one eye, he squinted up at the culprit who had caused his suffering.

 

Bobby cursed and leaned down to take a look at the damage. “You’d better not get blood on my floor,” he shot over his shoulder as he jogged into the back office.

 

Dean groaned, trying to tell if he was actually bleeding without moving his hand off of his face. He wanted to keep pressure on it so it wouldn’t swell too bad and if it were actually bleeding it would be best to keep pressure on, as well.

 

“Let me take a gander.” Bobby was back, kneeling at Dean’s side. “Don’t sit up too fast, I can’t carry you if get all fainting damsel on me.”

 

Dean tried to scowl at his boss, but stopped with a wince as the pull on his facial muscles sent pain shooting through his head. The older man had pulled Dean’s death grip off his face to assess the damage before pressing a clean rag full of ice to his forehead. Moisture leaked out onto his fingers through the open end of the makeshift ice bag.

 

“The hell, Bobby? I could have brained myself or shot you!” Dean stood shakily, leaning on the open edge of the car he had been working on.

 

Bobby gave his pseudo-son a measuring look. “You got a gun I don’t know about?” the grizzled man twisted his lips wryly.

 

“Not the point,” Dean huffed. “Announce yourself or something. Don’t just sneak up on people like that.”  


“This is my shop. I’ll do what I like, when I like,” Bobby pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his worn to softness jeans. “Plus I called your name two or three times before I gave up and just kicked you. What’s the deal with having the sound system on so loud first thing in the morning?”

 

Dean took a shaky breath, trying to stop the room from doing somersaults. “No one here for it to bother,” he mumbled.

 

Bobby looked at Dean hard. “You doin’ alright, boy?” he asked soberly.

 

“My skull is probably fractured and I might have left some skin on the undercarriage, but I’ll live,” Dean groused. The coolness from the ice was spreading leaving a familiar numbness where the swelling was stopping above his left eye.

 

“Not what I meant and you know it,” Bobby said gruffly.

 

Dean suddenly felt like the ice was in his gut instead of on his face. “I haven’t had a problem in years, Bobby,” he clipped defensively. “Why? Has someone said something? Has there been a complaint? Because I’m working and there’s no problem on my end. I’m doing just fine,” he ended lamely. He wasn’t making a great case for himself and he knew it. The green eyed mechanic glared a challenge to the older man standing before him.

 

“Found some beer bottles stashed in the toilet tank last week,” Bobby looked off towards the garage doors, gauging Dean’s reaction with his peripheral.

 

“That’s gross, Bobby,” Dean said after a beat.

 

Bobby turned back towards his pseudo-son and seeing no lie in Dean’s posture or eye (the left one was still covered by the ice rag) his face softened. “Thought maybe...but just forget it. Have you had breakfast yet?”

 

“Glad I’ve already eaten,” Dean huffed. “Thinking about toilet beer makes me want to heave.”

 

“Well, alright then. Get back to work, I’m heading into the office. I’ll be heading back to Sioux Falls as soon as I’ve got everything I need for our records. That mullet-headed idjit may be able to get everything onto hard drives but I sure as hell ain’t gonna trash old files. That’s how you get into trouble.”

 

Shaking his head the older man clapped a weather worn hand on Dean’s shoulder and departed for the darkened hallway. Dean watched the man he held above anyone else’s loping stride for a moment before turning back to the car at hand with a shaky breath. _That really was too close to the truth_ , he thought. _Can’t hide beer at the shop anymore. But I don’t need it anyway, I’m good, just like I told Bobby_.

 

As the morning wore on the garage filled with the sounds of staff starting their shifts. Gossip over the coffee cart, pestering the office assistant, rolling garage doors up to bring in cars and entice new customers with the sounds of metal-on-metal and productive shouts. Bobby left after a word with Ash and the office assistant, not bothering to interrupt Dean from his work, again. No chick-flick moments. And suddenly it was time for Dean’s afternoon appointments with clients who only wanted their higher-end cars handled “by well-trained professionals who won’t wreck the engine or take it for a joy-ride.”

 

Dean gritted his teeth through most of those meetings. He was the best mechanic in the area, hell in the _state_ , for classic cars. But that wouldn’t mean much if the customers didn’t want him to work on their cars. These yahoos would rather spend three times as much to have their ‘67 Mustang put up on a pedestal in some pristine white garage where the mechanics don’t know their ass from their elbow for the perception of the place rather than have someone who _actually knows what the hell they’re doing_ work on it because he’s got grease under his fingernails. So every once in a while Dean has to woo some pompous douchebags who he’d rather stab in their stupid, rich faces.

 

His first two meetings today were pretty quick. The guys were impressed with Dean’s knowledge of classic cars and agreed to bring in their cars this month. But Dean had a bad feeling in his gut from the start of the final meeting. Dude looked like some executive tax accountant gone to seed. Pair that with two muscle cars and the fancy foreign car that he drove up in and you have the earmarks of a hyper-macho guy who likes to throw his weight around. Didn’t help much that the dude’s name was _Zachariah_.

 

The office assistant had shown Mr. Adler into the conference room while Dean was hitting the head and grabbing a coffee upper between his last meeting and this one. When he opened the door to the room he knew he was in trouble. Zachariah was standing by the windows that overlooked the display room where shinny parts and classic cars with artfully exposed interiors sat on daises to attract even the most basic of car enthusiasts. The dude had his hands in the pockets of his suit and was sneering at the one spot on the wall that could do with a paint touch up like it was personally offending him.

 

Dean cleared his throat to get the man’s attention. “Mr. Adler?” Zachariah turned around, greasy grin that didn’t meet his eyes plastered on his face.  “I’m Dean Winchester, pleased to meet you,” Dean stuck his hand out across the chairs between them. The moist, firm grip he got in response gave the mechanic the heebie-jeebies. He had to sternly tell himself not to break the handshake first and was mildly surprised that there wasn’t a wet noise when they finally released each other’s hands.

 

“Why don’t you tell me little about what you’re looking for from us,” Dean prompted as he gestured towards a seat near him. Thankfully the chair Dean had chosen was one of the few with a cloth seat instead of pleather and he was able to wipe the gross moisture off on it as he pulled it up to the table beneath himself.

 

Zachariah paused midway to sitting. “Us?” he frowned.

 

Dean looked at the man in confusion.

 

“You said ‘what you’re looking for from _us_ ’,” Zachariah clarified after a beat. “I was under the impression that you would be working on my vehicles, not some two-bit local greaser who doesn’t know a Honda from a Ferrari. I didn’t come all this way to have my machines be a training opportunity for someone who wants to work their way up, Mr. Winchester.” Straightening his suit jacket he turned towards the door to leave.

 

“Woah, woah!” Dean raised his hands placatingly. “Mr. Adler. Mr. Adler! It was a bad choice of words. I just meant what are you looking to have done. If you want only me working on your cars I would be more than happy to make sure that no one even looks at them sideways.”

 

“Oh, well, let’s deal then,” Zachariah pulled out a chair and rolled up to the table, all business.

 

Dean blinked twice before launching into the services available, gathering information about what was wrong with the vehicles and what the last maintenance checks had been. He kept up a brisk pace, hoping that he would be able to keep a steady beat to save himself from the pendulum moodswings Douchebag Nutso over here seemed to have. By the time they were done and had scheduled a time for the cars to be dropped off at the garage Dean was exhausted. He sure could use a drink and it was only  Who knew his last appointment of the day would be this high maintenance? But as he shook the somehow still-moist hand of the suited man Dean was counting the dollar signs floating around his head. This account might just pay for his entire trip to visit Sammy.

  
And Dean was willing to put up with any amount of douchebaggery to get to spend time with his little brother.


	11. Mouldy Books and Stale Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam studies and studies, does some texting, and studies some more.

 Sam slammed the mouldy tome shut on the table causing the other, harried students around him to give him dirty looks. _Sorry_ he mouthed at a couple of them, feeling his cheeks warm. He shoved the book away from his notes and book-strewn area. Sitting back with an aborted huff he ran his long fingers through his hair, pulling it tightly in frustration. His hair really was getting long, maybe Dean was right and he needed a haircut but there really wasn’t time between classes, research, and work Sam was burning the candle at both ends. If he could just find a source with a cohesive argument for this paper he could take a break. Maybe grab a quick snack and another coffee from the cart before they closed for the night.

 

Sam looked at the numberless clock on the library wall and did a double take. How the hell was it so late, already?? Grabbing his bag he rummaged around in the blackness until he found his phone and clicked it on. Several messages greeted him causing him to cringe with regret. Two texts from a coworker asking him to cover a shift tomorrow morning and after noting that his lecture was still cancelled because the prof had a cold he sent of a quick affirmative. One call from Jess with a following text letting him know that there was leftovers from the her shift at the diner in the fridge whenever he got home from studying and a loving suggestion to “get some sleep this week, Tiger.” Sam smiled as he texted back that he would be home late (again) and would probably sleep in the spare room (again) because he would be up early for the shift he was covering.

 

The other messages were friends inviting him to weekend parties and a couple pics of Brady with his arm slung around a couple girls that were definitely not 21 but they were all at a club holding drinks and one pic of someone dude’s bare ass in what looked like the same club. Sam shook his head in judgement of his friend’s choices and chose not to reply to them tonight. Better to save himself from dozens of drunk texts or calls tonight and have the joy of waking his best friend on the way to work. The blonde’s hangover should be painful enough to torture him when the phone rang at 6am. Sam smirked evilly as he formulated what loud noises he could make over the phone when his friend answered. Another notification distracted his plotting.

 

Dean->Sam

:: _You won’t believe what I got to work on today…[attachment]_ ::

 

Sam opened the message and pursed his lips in a silent whistle. Dean was giving a thumbs up next to a sleek red convertible. Just visible over Dean’s shoulder from where he was crouching to take the selfie, Sam could make out the Jaguar emblem.

 

Sam->Dean

:: _Dude. What year is that thing??? That is sweet!_ ::

 

Sam looked at the picture again, admiring the lines on front end of the car.

 

Dean->Sam

:: _’69 Jaguar E-Type, my jealous friend. I feel like my hands have touched gold and these are the same hands that have touched porn stars._ ::

 

Sam snorted as he read the message.

 

Sam->Dean

:: _If I remember right (and I do) you touched ONE porn actress and she was LOCAL._ ::

 

Dean->Sam

:: _You’re wrong because you’re forgetting that weekend in Vegas where I hooked up with James Deen. Best weekend of my life._ ::

 

Sam balked at the message.

 

Dean->Sam

:: _Actually I may not have told you about that...my bad. Now you know!_ ::

 

Sam->Dean

:: _WTF dude?! When was that??_ ::

 

Sam sat back in shock. His brother didn’t normally talk about his bisexuality this openly, it was more just of a quiet thing where he slept with guys and didn’t mention it. Which made sense considering that he still lived in a pretty conservative area where his sexuality might cause customers to avoid the garage.

 

Dean->Sam

:: _Story for another time, little brother._ ::

 

Sam rolled his eyes.

 

Sam->Dean

:: _Fine. Don’t think I’m going to forget, though._ ::

 

Sam sent the text then tossed his phone back in his bag and stood up to stretch. If he went out right now he could still get something from the coffee cart outside of the library. And then it was back to researching this damn paper until the library closed. Again. Weaving his way quickly through tables and stacks the lanky undergrad made his way to the doors by the cart, shaking his head. Only two more months of this and then eight whole months of freedom before his law studies would start. _I can do this._ He coached himself. _I’ve made it this far, I can make it two more months_.

 

The cart attendant handed Sam his order and change then shut off the register and started cleaning up. Taking big bites of his stale sandwich between lukewarm gulps of old coffee so that he could get back into the library Sam fantasized about how he would spend his time off. _Maybe I’ll actually make it to the beach that I’ve lived so near for the past 3 years. Jess is always pleading with me to go on weekends._ As he forced down the last bites of sandwich with the dregs of coffee Sam realized all he was really looking forward to was not eating stale, cold food every day.

 

Sighing he tossed the empty containers into the trash as he headed back into the library. _Soon_ . He promised himself. _But right now, paper._


End file.
